


The Island of Misfit Toys

by pomegrenadier



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 01:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18511384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenadier/pseuds/pomegrenadier
Summary: Bits and pieces from Retrace I never got around to posting.





	The Island of Misfit Toys

**Author's Note:**

> Retrace is functionally a dead fic. I don't think I'm ever going to continue it properly; if I do write more for KotOR, it won't be in that continuity, even if I pull themes and ideas I still like from it.
> 
> That said, I wrote a _lot_ for the Retrace 'verse, and it seems a shame to just let it rot on my hard drive forever. So this will be a place to put snippets worthy of public consumption.

"If you fall again—" Bastila stops, jaw snapping shut. She should just continue, try to cover it up, but she can't think of anything to say and the silence is pressing in on them and Sen is just staring at her, eyes sharp and dark and calculating, and if she figures it out then—

Something strange passes over her face. Indecision, consideration . . . resolve. And regret. She swallows her food. "Again, huh?"

"I mean. Er. Given your, ah, unique personal history—"

"I remember, Bastila."

She stills. "What?"

"I know who I am."

Bastila can't breathe. The Force bond yawns wide as a hungry mouth, and she sees—ice, cold black ice, cruel and dangerous and familiar—this is what she felt, when she saved Darth Revan's life, just before the Force itself began screaming.

She doesn't move, but the distance between them is suddenly vast and empty as the space between galaxies. She doesn't look at Sen, gazing instead at the swoop bike in front of them. Every muscle is tense, every sense on high alert for the slightest sign of hostility. "For how long?"

Sen is still watching her. "It took me three days to remember."

"But—no. No. The Council—"

"Your Masters tried to erase me." She smiles with all the warmth of a firaxa shark. "They failed."

Bastila can feel the weight of her lightsaber, clipped to her belt over her left hip. Sen—Revan, _Revan_ is to her right. From this position she can probably gain enough space to draw her saber before Revan cuts her down.

Unless either one of them brings the Force to bear on the other. A telekinetic wave, a mental attack, a blast of lightning—she runs through the options in the space of a heartbeat.

But Revan doesn't attack. Bastila will not initiate hostilities, and Revan isn't attacking.

Bastila clears her throat. "All this time," she says tightly, "you've merely been . . . toying with us?"

"In a sense."

"Why bother pretending? Why not simply return to the Star Forge and reclaim your empire?"

Revan hesitates, then says, "Because I don't know where it is. The knowledge is there, just . . . buried. Too deeply to recover without prompting."

". . . The Star Maps."

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Revan look away. "Yes."

She'd thought—but it doesn't matter anymore. Whatever she thought, whatever she felt, it means nothing in the face of the truth. Sen Tethis was only another mask of the Dark Lord. "You know I cannot let you reach the Star Forge," she says. There is a quaver in her voice, a weakness, and she curses it with all her being.

The black ice shifts, cracks underfoot. "And what alternative do you have? Without me, you will never stop Malak," Revan says softly.

"And what then? After Malak is gone, will you be the next great enemy of the Republic?"

Revan seethes, she can feel it over their bond—but with frustration, not hate. Not directed at Bastila, anyway. She remains very, very still.

"I," Revan says. The anger simmers down in increments, leaving . . . resignation? And then: "No."

Bastila can't help it. She twists around to face her, incredulous. "So you have no desire to conquer us anymore, is that it?" she demands.

"I'm not your enemy, Bastila."

"Well, you're certainly no friend of the Republic!"

"I only ever wanted to _save_ the Republic!" Revan hisses, pitched low, almost drowned out by the engine noise. "From itself, if I had to."

Hands trembling, Bastila presses them to the floor, rising to her feet by inches, taking care to remain balanced but unthreatening. She looks down at the Sith Lord. "I see," she says. "You betrayed us. You nearly destroyed us. And it was all to _save_ us."

"Bastila—"

The _Ebon Hawk_ lurches. She stumbles into the bulkhead, recovers. "What in the—"

Revan stands, bracing herself against the workbench, eyes distant as she extends tendrils of the Force to sense the situation. They go clear and sharp and alarmed an instant later. "Damn it," she mutters. " _Damn_ it—cockpit, now."

Bastila can do nothing but follow her to the nose of the ship, where Carth is engaged in a frantic dance over the controls. "What's going on?" she shouts over the crackling thuds of laserfire on the shields and hull.

"We've got company," Carth says clippedly. "Sith fighters. I've got a capital ship fifteen hundred klicks astern and another fighter squadron dropping out of hyperspace."

"How did they find us?" Revan growls. Bastila casts her a dubious look. If she's been passing information to the Sith this whole time—but no, she is no ally of Malak's, and the Sith are loyal to him alone now.

"Beats me," Carth is saying. "Hang on . . ."

He executes a looping roll that gains them some breathing space, keeps the fighters from boxing them in. Carth activates the ship's intercom. "Canderous, Juhani, if you'd kindly take the turrets and blast these guys out of the black, I'd be much obliged—"

The ship rocks again. Alarms shrill. The weapons systems go red on the readout screen.

". . . Never mind. Turrets are out. Shields at forty-five percent and dropping," Carth says, and turns his attention back to evasion.

Revan is staring at the external sensors, calculating. "Hard to starboard," she says suddenly.

Carth hesitates. "But that'll take us right past the cruiser—"

"NOW!"

He swears, but sweeps the _Ebon Hawk_ around, narrowly avoiding a burst of fire from the returning fighters. "Now what?"

"Up, take us up, get above the cruiser," Revan says rapidly.

"Tractor beam?"

"Can't aim it past perpendicular."

"And the turbolasers?" Carth shouts as the Hawk judders and shakes.

"Shields at thirty. We have time—Bastila, plot in a hyperspace jump, anywhere above the galactic plane—"

Bastila starts to obey—and then flinches as she realizes what she's done. It's second nature to obey Revan, now. Automatic. What does that say about her? Particularly now, given the fact that it was all a sham anyway—

"Do it!"

It's not as if she has much choice.

She dives to the copilot's seat, frantically punching in the first navicomputer-cleared course she can find.

"Oh, frack," Carth says.

She glances at the sensor readout. "Oh."

A second Interdictor-class cruiser drops out of hyperspace practically on top of them.

They're well within the targeting field of the new ship's tractor beam.

Carth slowly takes his hands off the controls, slumping in his chair. "That's the _Leviathan_ ," he says dully. "Saul Karath's ship. My old mentor . . ."

"So are we completely hosed, or is Zaalbar just being gloomy again?"

The three of them turn—Mission has poked her head into the cockpit, looking less than hopeful.

Revan and Carth exchange a glance. Then Revan says, "We're only mostly hosed. Get everybody in the main hold. Planning time."

"Will do," says Mission, ducking out again.

Carth heaves a sigh. "Well, this is just . . . fantastic."

"It's not over."

"Isn't it?" Bastila mutters.

Revan smiles humorlessly. "I've gotten out of worse," she says.

And while it's nothing new, that dry confidence, it takes on new meaning now that it's backed not by implanted memories of smuggling skirmishes and brief sorties, but years of war against the greatest military forces the Republic has faced—or fielded—in generations.

Bastila is unsure whether to be comforted or concerned.

**o.O.o**

"We have maybe four minutes until we're secured in their docking bay," she says once the crew has assembled, Bastila's wariness a constant itch at the back of her mind. "So whatever we do, it had better be fast."

"Sen, Bastila, and I are the most high-profile prisoners here," says Carth. "We'll be under heavy guard the whole time—Saul wants us specifically. The rest of you are just accomplices."

"Less security for the general crew," she summarizes. "Good."

"What, you want us all to break out of the detention cells and come rescue you three or something?" Canderous says, scowling. "That'll go over great . . ."

"Not all of you," Revan says. It all slots into place. It's not perfect, but it's all she has. She folds her arms—it's almost like being back on the bridge of the _Crusader_ , directing her fleet. "Just one. If Saul's intel is good he'll know who among you is Force-sensitive, so Juhani, Jolee, you'll probably be better secured than the rest. Droids, you're tough, but too easily deactivated or restrained." And Saul most likely knows about HK-47's more homicidal functions, if Malak has been splitting his time between the Star Forge and the _Leviathan_. Not that she'll mention any of that. No need to blow HK's cover, even if hers is decidedly shaky now that Bastila knows . . ."Zaalbar, Canderous, you're obvious threats, they'll be keeping an eye on you—"

"No," Zaalbar says flatly. Process of elimination leaves only one option.

"Mission?" Revan says, turning to her.

The girl blinks for a second, then laughs incredulously. "You—no way, me? I'm just—"

"You're the best slicer we have," she says. "And you look too young and innocent to put them on their guard."

"No," Zaalbar repeats. "It's too dangerous, she could be hurt—"

"How many times do I have to say it?" Mission whirls on him. "How many times do I have to prove it to you that I can take care of myself?" She falters, then says, viciously, "I've saved you over and over and you never swore any life-debt to me. So my life is my responsibility and I'll risk it if I have to, whether you like it or not!"

Zaalbar stares at her, aghast. "Mission . . ."

"Okay," she says, turning back to Revan. "What do you need me to do?"

Revan visualizes the layout of the detention area—cells, processing, storage, torture chamber, barracks, security checkpoints. She smiles. "Once you're out of your cell . . ."

**o.O.o**

Canderous shouts over the commlinks to hurry the hell up. She and Carth sprint up the boarding ramp, and the Mandalorian seals the ship, blasts their way out of the Leviathan's hangar bay, and takes them to hyperspace within thirty seconds.

The rest of the crew is gathered in the main room in varying states of worry. Carth ignores all of them and walks over to stand rigid near the comms station, staring at the monitors with his fists clenched.

She leans against a bulkhead for support, suddenly exhausted. So much has changed within the space of a few short hours.

"What happened?" Mission asks. Then, voice rising in concern, "Where's Bastila?"

"Malak has her," she says quietly.

"What? But he'll—what's he going to do to her?"

"He'll break her, Mish," she says, the words sticking at the back of her throat. But she knows what's going to happen. She knows. She's seen it. She's done it. "Try to turn her against the Republic. And he'll succeed. Bastila doesn't bend. She will shatter and Malak will use her to—"

"Stop it," Mission says. "Just—just stop."

"How did this happen?" asks Jolee. "I'm guessing you didn't just hand old Jawless the Republic's best hope." And that's a note of accusation.

"We tried to save her," she says tightly. "I tried and I couldn't—"

"Are you going to tell them, or should I, _Sen_?" Carth says.

She looks at him and feels tar-black laughter bubbling up in her chest. "Is this really the right time?" she grates.

"I really think it is." He doesn't take his eyes off her but addresses the whole crew. "You all have a right to know. She's no Republic cryptographer. She's Darth Revan."

Dead silence falls.

"You're—you're kidding," says Mission. "Sen, you can't be—"

"She is," Carth says curtly. "Saul Karath told me, and Malak confirmed it. Bastila knew all along."

Fine. _Fine_. She's done. The game is over, the mask is gone, she's just done. She straightens, centers herself in the Force. "If it helps," she says, "she didn't know that I knew."

". . . Figures," Jolee snorts. "And here I was thinking you were just starting to remember."

"Wait, you knew, too?" Carth explodes.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far. I guessed."

"And you never said anything?!"

"It didn't seem important, since we were doing just fine on the whole galaxy-saving thing," says Jolee, irritated.

"Hang on a minute," says Canderous. "I thought her—your big plan was to destroy the Republic."

She opens her mouth. "I—"

"Not gonna happen," Carth hisses, drawing his blaster.

"Whoa!" Mission says. "Whoa, hold it, just—what are you even doing, that's not—"

"Interruption: Master, may I slaughter the meatbags now?"

Zaalbar growls. Juhani goes for her lightsaber. "If that droid makes one move, I will—"

Trask wanders into the main room from the 'fresher. "Oh, thank the Force, you made it—kriffing hell what's going on?"

"Everybody stand down!" she shouts, reinforcing the order with a shove against their minds. The organic members of the crew stagger back slightly. But the yelling's stopped, and the escalation of hostilities has been halted. So that's . . . something.

The ensuing silence is, if anything, even more fraught than its predecessor.

She turns to HK with a glare. "You, too," she says.

Sullen, the droid lowers his rifle. T3 woobles nervously. She looks at the rest of the crew, all of them staring back at her, some shocked, some resigned, some horrified.

"Yes," she snaps. "I am Darth Revan."

". . . I think an explanation would do more good than another round of that little Corellian standoff," Jolee says, uncharacteristically grim.

Revan (her name, finally, finally) hooks her lightsabers through her belt, pressing her lips together for a moment. "Where do you want me to start?" she asks.

"How about at the beginning?"

Unhelpful. Extremely unhelpful. She sifts through what she knows and what she suspects anyway, tries to prune out the rationalizations and justifications she longs to make. _Believe me. Please. I'm not your enemy. I don't know what I am but I don't want to be your enemy._ Useless. Let them draw their own conclusions. It's not as though she can't deal with any of them if they decide she's better off dead.

"Last year, as you're probably aware, Bastila and a Jedi strike team attacked my flagship," she says, slowly at first, then gaining speed. "Their objective was to capture, not kill me. Malak took the opportunity to fire on us all, hoping to eliminate both me and the Republic's greatest asset in one blow. He failed, obviously. We escaped. Bastila saved my life, forging the Force bond between us, and took me to the Jedi Council. They tried to retrieve my knowledge of the Star Forge. They, too, failed. So they decided to destroy my mind, rewrite me as a Republic lackey who'd pose no threat to them. They wanted to use Bastila's bond with me to learn the source of the Sith's power and how to destroy it."

"So how did you . . . you know, remember or whatever?" Mission asks.

"I've had a lot of practice defending my mind," Revan says, suppressing a shiver. It's the truth, but—damn whoever or whatever gouged these holes into her memory, because there is something she is missing. Something important—why? Why are her shields so strong, why can't she remember—? "It's . . . it's not always enough," she continues. "There are still blanks. I didn't remember the Star Forge until Bastila and I found the first map on Dantooine."

Jolee nods in understanding. "You pretended to have forgotten what you remembered while trying to remember what you'd forgotten."

It takes her a moment to parse that statement. ". . . Yes?"

"And you didn't think it might be important to tell us that you're actually a kriffing Sith Lord?" Carth demands.

She scowls at him. "I'm so sorry to have betrayed your trust, Carth," she says through her teeth. "Oh, wait—you never trust anyone." And if she had told him? He'd've run straight to the Fleet, the Jedi. And they would have learned from their previous failure. No one plays with her mind again. No one.

"Easy," Jolee says sharply as Carth visibly restrains himself from lunging at her. "Both of you. Look at it from each other's perspectives—of course Carth's upset! You're the embodiment of everything he hates! And of course S—Revan, excuse me, of course Revan didn't tell you, Carth. That would just be silly. Tyrannical overlords don't do silly. Well, the competent ones don't."

Carth's hostility flares in the Force, then settles to a low, constant roil. "Fine," he grunts.

"Back on topic," says Jolee, the hypocrite. "I believe you mentioned blank spots . . .?"

Revan shakes off the urge to giggle hysterically. "I remember the Star Forge, but not where it is. I remember attacking the Republic, but not why."

"Well, that's reassuring," Trask says, face pale.

"So, what, Telos, Taris, none of that means anything to you?" says Carth. "You want us to act like everything's okay, like you're not a monster—"

"I don't know what happened!" Revan shouts. "I don't remember, I don't _know_ , and I am sorry, I truly am, but there is nothing I can say to make up for any of what I did—there's no reason for it, none, and even if—"

"You're damn right you can't make up for it—"

"That's enough!" Mission bursts out, hands white-knuckled over the back of the nav station chair.

"She's Darth Revan," Carth says tightly. "Mission, it's her fault Taris is gone. It's her fault my wife is dead. It's her fault Bastila is being tortured by Malak right now." He draws blaster, aims it straight at Revan's head. "As far as I'm concerned, they deserve justice. And they're gonna get it."

Adrenaline sings through her. Cold. Sharp. So be it. She stares down the barrel and spreads her hands with a mocking smile. "Go ahead, then," she says silkily. "Go on, take the shot, murder me in cold blood. If, that is, you like your odds against—"

"Both of you, please, just stop!" Mission is on her feet, tears streaming down her face, skittering away from Zaalbar as he tries to hold her back.

"Mission, don't—"

"No," she says, "no, I'm not gonna just sit here and—and let this happen! I don't—I don't know what to think, I don't know anything but you can't—this isn't you, either of you!"

"Mission is right," Juhani says. She steps forward, one hand on Mission's shoulder. "A decision made in anger is rarely a wise one. Carth, do not go down this path. It will only lead to more pain."

"You didn't watch someone you love die because of—"

Juhani cuts in, "I watched my mother waste away from starvation. And I watched as my world fell apart. I watched, and the only person who did anything to stop it was this woman. She saved me. Twice over, she has saved me, even from my own demons. Now you must face yours. I will not allow you to lose yourself to revenge."

"Kid's right," says Jolee. "'Sides, there's been too much excitement for these old bones today. And Revan? Shut up."

She closes her mouth. Goading Carth, however tempting, will not help any of them.

Carth, for his part, is staring aghast at Juhani, then Mission, then Jolee. "You're out of your minds," he spits. Then he slams his blasters into their holsters and stomps out of the main room, snarling over his shoulder, "If and when the rest of you wake the hell up, let me know."

Mission blinks back tears, arms tight around herself. Juhani squeezes her shoulder as Zaalbar moves to her side; she leans against him for support, breathing in sharp deep gulps. "Dammit," she whispers.

Revan presses her hands to her face. "Juhani," she begins, but the younger Jedi cuts her off.

"No," she snaps. "Do not thank me. Not for this. This is not absolution.

Revan nods jerkily. "I understand."

"I will follow you still," Zaalbar says slowly. "But if you put Mission in danger . . ."

He doesn't need to articulate the threat. She'll find herself short a few limbs, and then find herself beaten to death with them. And—and she would do the same, in his place.

. . . She'd do the same in Carth's place.

Revan bows her head. "For whatever it's worth . . . I'm sorry." Sorry for lying to them all. Sorry for manipulating them. For dragging them out of their lives and into this madness, for bringing them so much pain, for betraying them—

"I say we all take a few hours to cool off," Jolee's saying. "You young people always rush into things without thinking. And we really can't afford that right now."

One by one, the crew disperses, Canderous to the men's quarters, Juhani to the women's, Jolee to the medical bay, Mission and Zaalbar to the cargo hold. T3 trundles up to Revan's leg, bumps into it a few times, burbling lowly.

She puts a hand atop its chassis. "Nobody died," she mutters. "At least there's that."

"Accusation: I was looking forward to a slaughter, Master," says HK. "I confess myself disappointed."

"Consider this a blanket prohibition to provoke or attempt to provoke anyone to violence," she says icily. "In addition to the no-attacking rule."

"Insincere reassurance: Of course, Master. As you command."

"HK—"

"Resigned apology: No need to fret, Master, I was merely joking."

Revan glares at him. He shrugs with a whir of servomotors, then wanders off to the swoop hangar.

She's . . . still not alone. Trask loiters by the nav station, grey eyes shadowed by a deep frown. His arms are folded, shoulders high and hunched—uncomfortable, uncertain, defensive. But he's not moving, not leaving.

She sighs, patting T3 twice and then turning to face him fully. "Trask."

He watches her. "So. Was the whole vibroblade thing an act, or did you really manage to fight and win a war without knowing how to use a sword?"

At first, all she can think is _What?_ Then she bursts out laughing, sagging back against the holoprojector, rubbing at her face with shaking hands. "No," she manages. "No, that was . . . that was genuine."

"Uh-huh."

"I trained with lightsabers, you ass," she says. "And I couldn't reach the Force at the time. Sort of a disadvantage when using an unfamiliar weapon."

Trask quirks an eyebrow. "Right," he says, drawing the word out. "I taught a Sith Lord how to swing a vibroblade."

"Yes, you did," she says with a grin. "Thanks."

". . . Fierfek," Trask mutters. "They'll probably court-martial me for that one."

"Probably," she agrees. She shakes her head. "Trask, I—"

"Look," he says. "I've known you the longest out of any of these people. All this time you've done what you can to keep us all safe. Even me, and I'm nobody special. Whoever you are—Sen, Revan, I don't even know—you're my friend, and I'll stand by you." He sighs. "And that was incredibly mushy and embarrassing and I'm regretting every word of it already—"

"No," Revan says. "No, it was—okay, it was kind of mushy. But . . . thank you." She nudges T3 with a toe as it repeatedly bumps into her side. It doesn't deter the droid at all. She gives up and rests a hand atop its chassis again, and it woobles happily. Bloody astromech. She looks up at Trask. "Really. Thank you. I'm honored to call you my friend."

"Okay, yeah, we're done," he says, red-faced.

"Yep. Very done."

"I'm gonna . . ."

"Yeah."

Trask coughs and flees after Canderous. Revan shakes her head, lips twitching. Nobody special? Perhaps not in terms of abilities. But he doesn't need to be a master pickpocket or Force adept or legendary pilot or hardened warrior. He taught her to fight again. Trask is kind. And that's a rare quality in the middle of a war.

Her smile fades rapidly. This is her war.

Her fault.

Why?

**o.O.o**

"Se—Revan?" Mission calls softly, ducking into the shadowy cargo hold.

The lights snap on at her gesture. Mission freezes in the doorway. Swallowing, she takes another step inside. "Hey," she says. "You've been down here for ages. I was getting worried."

Revan leans against the bulkhead from her perch atop a supply crate, forearms braced on her drawn-up knees. She lets her head roll back and thunk against the bulkhead. A calculated gesture, leaving her throat exposed, vulnerable. It's Mission. Not a threat. A friend. And—and she doesn't want Mission to be afraid. Not of her.

She takes a steadying breath. Calm. Serenity. Put all that Jedi training to good use for once. "I figured you and the others might want some time to . . . process," she says.

A lie. She's hiding from them.

Mission laughs uneasily. "Yeah. It's—I mean, I know you're still you, it's just kinda hard to wrap my head around—you know. Everything else."

She wants to shake the girl—to shout _no, I was never me, never once in all the time we've known each other, I have lied to you from the moment we met, I have used you, if not without regret then without a doubt that it was the right thing to do_ —and yet now, now she doubts everything. Her own motives. Her own mind.

She says, "There's a lot of _else_."

"Gotta give you points for being a better liar than Griff," Mission says. Revan can't quite read her tone, and the Force is no help, either, a murky confused mess of conflicting emotions radiating from every being on the ship. "So, uh . . . Korriban's next."

She raises her head. "Unfortunately."

"And then we go get Bastila, right?"

Revan shifts, letting her feet slip over the edge of the crates to dangle above the floor panels. "I don't know," she says quietly.

Mission runs her tongue over her lips, glancing away. "You said Malak would hurt her. And I thought you and Bastila were—I thought you cared about her."

"I do," says Revan. "Believe me, I do. But the Star Forge is—"

"Is what?" Mission challenges. "More important?"

"I don't know!" Revan stands up, fingers raking through her hair in frustration. She paces a few steps away from Mission, finds herself in a corner, and scowls, turning on her heel to face her. "Look, it's—it's a matter of which is the greater threat."

"Bastila isn't a threat to us, though—"

"She could be," Revan says grimly. "You've heard Carth and Trask talk about Battle Meditation, right? It's kept the Republic from losing the war, gained them ground—against me, all right? And I was—I was not an easy enemy to face. Now imagine all that power, all that potential to completely reverse the tide of any battle, in Malak's hands."

Mission looks stricken. "But—she wouldn't," she says.

"Not our Bastila, no. But Malak and I—we made a fucking art form out of turning Jedi," she says, pinching the bridge of her nose, unable to meet Mission's eyes. "It's only a matter of time. And I can't reach her!" she snarls. "He's blocked the bond, somehow, I can't help her, I can't tell what's happening—damn it."

"Okay," Mission says shakily. "Okay . . . So what do we do?"

Revan exhales. "Move fast," she says. "And hope Bastila can hold on. Because if she can't . . ."

Mission blanches a sickly periwinkle. "You'd kill her," she says, horrified. "You—you'd actually—she's our friend!"

"So was Malak," Revan says coldly. "I'm still going to kill him."

"Can't you even hear yourself?" Mission demands. "The Sen I know wouldn't even consider killing Bastila—you love her!"

"I'm not Sen. I'm a Sith Lord, Mission—killing what you love is part of the fucking job description—" She snaps her jaw shut, bows her head. Stop talking. Just stop talking or you're going to lose it completely. More importantly, though, she'll shatter whatever's left of Mission's trust. The crew is all the girl has. Her family. Tiny and broken and falling apart, because of Revan.

Mission is almost crying now. "Promise me something," she says, voice choked. "Promise me that you'll try to save her."

"Mission—"

"Promise me!"

There's no point. Bastila is lost. But she'll say it. For Mission's sake, she'll say it.

"If," she starts, then clears her throat. "If there's any chance of saving Bastila . . . I'll take it. I promise."

"Good," Mission says, sniffing hard. She wipes at her nose with the back of her hand. "Ugh—I'm not some weepy kid. I just. I don't want . . ."

"I know, Mish," says Revan. Tentatively, she reaches out. She's nearly bowled over as Mission clamps her arms around Revan's middle. The hug lasts for a second or two, and then Mission lets go and darts away.

She's left alone in the cargo hold with a snotty undershirt and a creeping sense of despair.

**o.O.o**


End file.
